


Hold Your Horses

by DinoDina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15044000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: Someone's been getting to the horses before him, stealing his business, and Marcus won't stand for it.





	Hold Your Horses

The Hogwarts Ranch rose from the flat plains, a single house amidst a sea of sand and grass, surrounded by wooden fences and outcroppings of trees. Dark against the orange sky, there was a sense of foreboding out it, as well as the welcome glow it gave off in the sunset.

Marcus had grown up on that ranch. The empty plains had been his playground; the tall, dark house his home; the fences on the horse enclosures the one thing keeping him from his passion.

He lightly touched his horse's sides with his heels and moved forward, leading the captured mustangs.

It was darker when he actually reached the ranch; the flatness of the plains had made it look closer than it actually was. Marcus wasn't surprised—he'd done this trip many times, after all.

As the ranch looked bigger and bigger—the main house taller than at other ranches, looming over its land—Marcus noticed something new. It was the noise that alerted him first: hooves against dry ground, huffs of breath in the silent evening, energetic neighing.

The paddocks—the ones for wild horses—were filled.

Marcus stopped his horse with his heels before they reached the gate and peered at the paddocks. Only two were empty, but that wasn't right. They were  _all_  supposed to be empty until his arrival: he was the only regular supplier of the ranch.

"Alright, Jupiter, let's see what's going on," he said to his horse, and directed him Towards the gates.

He set the mustangs into the paddocks first, then left his horse next to the porch, where a trough stood. He didn't tie Jupiter up; he never tied him up, having trained the horse himself to the point where he rode without a saddle.

He went up the stairs, dust falling from his boots as he did so. He'd been in the planes all day, first walking, then riding. His boots would need a thorough polish after; he hadn't spent so much time in the plains in months, but there were less mustangs than usual.

No one knocked when they entered the Hogwarts Ranch. Really, there should have been a sign about the open-door policy, as unwise as it was. But the owner, a man called Dumbledore, believed in hospitality to the point of self-ruin. Though Marcus didn't know his story—that was the way things were out West; everyone had secrets—he knew that financial ruin and humiliation had followed Dumbledore all the way from England.

"Enter!" someone called as Marcus shut the door.

It wasn't Dumbledore, but a woman. Tall and thin, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, she had stood from her armchair as Marcus approached, and eyed him shrewdly.

"Professor McGonagall," he said, stopping, and bowed.

"None of that, now. It's been a long time since I've been your teacher," she replied, waving a dismissive hand as a smile lit up her face. "Welcome back."

Marcus grinned at her. She and Dumbledore had taken him in—had taken loads of kids in, had raised them at the ranch when their own families had failed them—and he was forever grateful. He waited for her to sit back down before sitting across from her.

"I've got the horses," he said.

"I never doubted you." There was a note of understanding in her voice; she'd heard the challenge, hurt, and hesitation in his.

"I know." He nodded. Strict as she was, McGonagall was the fairest person he'd ever met. "Look—I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. But it's late and I've been riding all day. Where's Dumbledore?"

"In his study." She smiled, and Marcus knew his tone had been forgiven.

He stood up, bowed again, and went down the hall and up the stairs to where he knew Dumbledore's study was. It was one of the largest rooms in the house, with tall windows and even taller bookshelves, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. How they'd afforded the chandelier, he didn't know: most ranches were barer, more modern, fitting the scene with modest furnishings. Then again, most ranches weren't also a refuge for helpless children.

Dumbledore was in his study, deep in thought behind his desk. Marcus was afraid to approach, at first—the study had an open-doors policy like the rest of the ranch, but he'd never been particularly close to Dumbledore.

He hadn't been close to anyone, really. Snape, the man in charge of raising him and the other boys, had been neglectful and prone to favoritism—Marcus hadn't been a favorite. And McGonagall had been a faraway figure; he hadn't even dreamed that he'd be able to go up and talk to her, like he did now.

"Ah, Marcus!" Dumbledore said before Marcus could hesitate further, and stood up, his arms thrown wide in invitation.

"Good evening." Marcus approached the desk and waited for Dumbledore to sit down before doing so himself. "I brought the horses."

"Did you? Good!"

"Yeah." Marcus cleared his throat; it felt odd to talk to Dumbledore with anything but gratitude and reverence. "I couldn't help noticing that you've already got horses."

"Yes." Dumbledore beamed. "Isn't it great? We received them a few hours ago."

Marcus tried not to fume, and kept his voice even as he said, "Who delivered them?"

Dumbledore waved an idle hand, but didn't otherwise reply, his eyes twinkling; Marcus was sure of the answer, even if Dumbledore wasn't going to provide it.

He clenched his fists to rein in his anger—he'd always had problems with that—and let out a breath. "I'd like my payment please."

"Of course." Dumbledore stood up and rounded the desk to take out a pouch of silver from a small chest. "The usual amount—unless you need more?"

Marcus found it hard to remain angry when Dumbledore spoke without any mocking or insincerity, but the edge of a calling card—an edge with a thin border of powder grey—beneath the chest caught his eye. The fact remained that, paid or not, he had a job to do. "Thank you. I'll be on my way, now, Sir."

He tipped his hat and left Dumbledore to his books, closing the study door behind him. Dumbledore spent so much time there he knew it was the correct action: kind as he was, Dumbledore had never directly interacted with any of the children, leaving that up to hired teachers, and he spent more time in his study than he did with the horses. Marcus supposed that was alright—he was never neglectful, but sometimes absent in the way he'd seen the town's few scholars—more like mad inventors—act.

McGonagall stopped him on the way to the door. "Marcus? It's late. Are you staying?"

"No, I need to get back into town."

She huffed in a way Marcus knew was disapproving; he turned around and tried to smile. "I'm sorry, I have some business to attend to."

If he didn't leave that minute, he didn't know what he'd do. Break something, probably. Maybe yell. Whatever it was, McGonagall didn't deserve it.

Jupiter was already waiting, sensing Marcus's restless mood, following his direction to leap into a gallop. The steady beats of the horse's hooves and the steady passage of the plains against the dark sky soothed Marcus. With the anger receding, he could think, though the passage of this thoughts strayed beyond the foreign horses at the Hogwarts Ranch and the powder grey edge of the business card on Dumbledore's desk.

By the time the edge of town cut into his line of vision, Marcus had had the time to ponder on his childhood love of the isolation of the plains; of the long-lasting comforts of a horse's steady companionship; of the owner of the powder grey business card, who had thwarted Marcus's business before and left nothing behind but a card to his would-be client and a silhouette for Marcus to stare at in the distance, waving a powder grey hat..

Leaving Jupiter by the saloon, Marcus was inside. The doors swung open as he ended, and the din inside momentarily abated as all heads turned to him. Then, deeming him unimportant, they turned back to their whiskey and left Marcus to procure his own.

"What'll it be?" asked Tom, the barman, as Marcus approached.

"Not looking to drink tonight, Tom," Marcus said evenly. He sat at the bar and felt the stares of the nearby patrons. He let out an uncomfortable chuckle. "On second thought, gimme a shot."

Tom slid it over and Marcus cradled it in his hand, looking around. His neighbors were no longer looking at him, satisfied now that he had a drink; they weren't a nosy lot, usually. In front of him, Tom was cleaning glasses and coming when called to refill glasses and update customers on the town gossip.

"Hey, Tom," Marcus said after several minutes. "You seen a cowboy around here?"

"Going to have to be more specific than that, son."

"Goes by Bell." Marcus cleared his throat. "Wears this hat—really specific color, I've only seen it once—a sort of powder grey."

"Might have," Tom shrugged.

Marcus clenched his jaw. "Don't play with me."

"Who's playing? 'Powder grey' you tell me, as if all I do is look at hats." But Tom broke his grouchy tone to nod his head. "Yeah, I've seen him. Left a few minutes before you came."

Marcus looked up sharply. He'd never come so close. "You're sure?"

Tom looked offended. Marcus waved him off—of course Tom was sure: he was the town's head gossip, his information was always correct—and left the glass on the table as he ran out.

"Come on!" He jumped onto Jupiter's back and headed for the edge of town. It had only been ten minutes at most, and if the cowboy—it had to be Bell, with his infuriating powder grey hat and business cards, Bell, whose face Marcus had never seen but who'd been stealing horses from under his nose for months now—was headed out of town, then Marcus would definitely see him.

"There!"

Marcus pointed, and Jupiter took of at a gallop that had him almost falling off. He righted himself; the horse was nothing if not loyal. Jupiter chased Bell for several minutes, but as the town ended and the plains began, Marcus could sense him slowing. There was no way he was tired, no reason for him to slow down—unless…

Bell had stopped and was waiting, horse turned to face Marcus as he approached at a tentative trot.

There was a bandana tied around the cowboy's face under the powder grey hat, completely hiding his features, and it was just his loose grip on the reins of his horse that convinced Marcus he was up to no harm.

:"You took my job." Marcus kept himself at a distance.

Bell didn't answer.

"You took my horses."

Bell didn't answer again.

Marcus clenched his teeth together. "You should answer me."

"Or what?"

Jupiter took a step back, sensing Marcus's surprise. Marcus himself started: were his ears deceiving him? He shook his head. "No way."

Bell laughed. "Weren't expecting this?"

"I think it's safe to say I wasn't." Much like with McGonagall, it was hard to be angry at a woman—even if she'd stolen his horses and jobs. He took off his hat. "I must tip my hat to you, though. It's impressive, what you did. Even if you were a man—to keep this up for so long—"

"Keep what up?"

There was no hiding the smile in her voice, even with her face covered. The good-natured teasing relaxed Marcus's shoulders; there was no way she'd meant anything in a  _malicious_  way—damned inconvenient, definitely, but not meant to harm.

"You're clearly skilled. I've been following your work—not on purpose, but it seemed that you've made it your business to  _take_  my work—" Marcus smiled then; he knew he looked imposing sometimes, especially in anger. "I'm impressed."

Bell's horse trotted closer. "What are you saying?"

"I think we'd make better partners than rivals." Marcus needed someone he could trust—not that it would be easy, especially with such an old rival—and rely on in the harsh conditions of the west, especially with the coming winter. He needed skill, not to mention compatibility, and the easy conversation between them was inspiring.

She tilted her head. "Alright."

Marcus's eyes widened. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." She shrugged. "You make a good point—besides, it's no good to be all on your own out here. Now, come on,  _partner_ , introduce me to your horse."

Marcus, still slightly slack-jawed, patted Jupiter encouragingly as she leveled with him. "This is Jupiter Roman—"

"Your horse has two names?"

Marcus grimaced. "Kind of. See, I named him 'Jupiter', but everyone thought I just liked the planet, so I started introducing him as 'Jupiter—except he's named after the Roman god', except no one really paid attention, and then Tom—the barman in town, you know him—heard that his name was Jupiter Roman and told everyone. So it's kind of stuck. But he's just 'Jupiter' to friends." Marcus smiled, imagining that she was smiling, too, and turned to the horse. "Jupiter, this is—"

"Katie."

"Katie." Marcus looked over, trying to imagine what Katie looked like, but no need: she'd lowered the bandana to under her chin, and warm brown eyes shone under the wide brim of the powder grey hat.

He'd wanted to ask her the name of her horse; the reason she was out west; if she'd always loved horses just as he had—but he'd barely managed to stay on his horse when she'd shown her face and directed her smile at him.

The questions would wait, he decided as they started riding out into the plains. There would be plenty of time for that later; now, it was time to set up camp and decide the terms of their partnership.


End file.
